


Vagabonds

by FeralPen



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, References to Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vigilantism, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralPen/pseuds/FeralPen
Summary: Matthew Murdock was a promising young lawyer until he caught the attention of a mind-controlling psychopath.Jessica Jones and her sister left their life behind to start a private investigative business in Hell's Kitchen. They uncover the man with no name - Wilson Fisk.Snippets from an upside-down life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I really shouldn't post this, but I'm excited to share it. 
> 
> Welcome to my AU nightmare. It's growing out of control. It was supposed to be loosely-connected snippets, not too plot-heavy, just poking at an AU. It... It's not exactly that anymore.
> 
> More tags will appear as I update. Not sure how in-depth this will go, so I'm playing it fast and loose. Please enjoy.

There were things Foggy Nelson was prepared to find on his doorstep at midnight, and there were things he was not.

Things he was prepared for: giant rats. Bums. Mobsters out to steal his second-hand Xbox and sell his kidneys for heroin. His drunk great-uncle asking for money. Normal things.

Things he wasn't prepared for: his missing best friend and law partner turning up on his doorstep after a year with no communication.

“Matt?” Foggy asked. He slowly lowered the baseball bat he was brandishing behind the door. His fingers were numb.

Matt looked - well, good was a strong word. He was in a suit more expensive than anything Foggy could afford, and the glasses covering his eyes were designer. Beyond that, he looked cold and frighteningly blank. He didn't move or speak.

“Matt?” He asked again. “Is it really you? Are you really there, or am I dreaming?”

Matt finally moved then. His lips spasmed into the impression of a smile. 

“No, Foggy. You're not dreaming. I'm here.”

The dam broke. 

Foggy was crying. When his tears dried enough to see again, Matt was crying, too. At some point, they'd come inside and shut the door, but they'd only made it as far as crouching in the entryway of Foggy's shitty, run-down apartment. He was holding him so close he swore he could hear his bones creaking. Matt didn't protest - he clutched him back just as tightly.

“Where have you been, Matt?” he sobbed. 

“I've been here,” Matt gasped out through his own hitching sobs. “Here in New York. I've been right here.”

“I don't understand. Why didn't you answer my calls?”

“It's a long story,” he answered.

“We have all night,” Foggy said firmly.

He made a pot of coffee, and over coffees laced with bourbon, the story came out. It took hours to get the truth, but Foggy patiently waited out each halting recollection as Matt provided them.

“So you were kidnapped,” Foggy said for probably the twelfth time.

“Something like that,” Matt said again. “No, Foggy, I can't go to the police.”

“Because he's a mind-controller named Kilgrave.”

Matt nodded wordlessly.

“But he's dead now?”

“I think so,” Matt answered. He sounded exhausted. “He got… he got hit by a bus.”

“And you got away.”

“Three days ago.”

“Where have you been since then?”

“Sleeping in alleys, mostly.” The grin Matt offered him was weak. “I didn't have anywhere else to go. I don't… I don't even know how long I was gone.”

‘“Matt… it's been a year,” Foggy said gently. His friend's face paled and he sighed. “This is… Okay, so this is crazy, this isn't ideal, but Matt, you're here. You're not dead in an alley somewhere. And you got kidnapped by a mind-control guy and killed him and your life is insane, but Matt. You're back. You're here.”

“I still can't believe I am,” he said faintly.

He smiled then, a hesitant thing. “Your apartment… they evicted you, but not before I grabbed all your stuff.”

He gently took his friend's hand and led him, wobbling slightly, to the corner of his living room. The corner that was packed with moving boxes full of everything he could grab from the apartment before they had closed it up. Matt traced his fingers lightly over the cardboard.

“Your furniture's gone,” he said awkwardly. “I didn't have anywhere to put it. Most of the dishes, too. But I got your clothes and your books and your laptop and stuff.”

Matt was crying again. Not showy, just silent. He looked achingly young and lost. Foggy swallowed down the lump in his throat.

“I never gave up on you,” he blurted out. Matt's ear tilted towards him. He swallowed hard again and continued. “I bothered Brett every damn day. He told me you were gone so long, you were probably in the bottom of the Hudson. He said I should stop putting up posters. I even tried to get your face on a milk carton.” They shared a watery laugh. Foggy sobered and gently touched his arm. “I never gave up on you, Matt.”

Matt swallowed. He turned and fumbled his way over to the couch. Foggy helped him the last two steps, and they both flopped onto the couch. Foggy was secure enough in his masculinity to admit that they were cuddling.

“I don't know what to do,” Matt said. “I still can't - I still can't believe this is real. Any of it. This past year was - it was a nightmare. One long, bad dream, and I never thought I would wake up. I thought - I thought I was trapped there forever, Foggy. I thought…”

“You're back, though. Matt, you're back. And,” he said. “Your name is still on the sign.”

Matt paused at that. “What sign?”

Foggy couldn't help the smile on his face. “I've been keeping the dream alive, Matt. Admittedly, I'm only making enough to keep the lights on, and I'm a month behind on pretty much everything, but Nelson & Murdock is still in business. I got a real sign and everything. When you're ready to go back, you should feel it. I got nice raised lettering and everything.”

Matt's chuckle was weak. “That sounds great, Fogs.”

“I know you're probably gonna need some time. You deserve it. But if you do want to get back into the swing of things, it's waiting for you. I'm waiting for you. As long as you need “

“It might be… a while. I need to…”

“Matt.” He cuddled him closer, masculinity be damned, and gently squeezed his hand. “You do what you need to do. Don't worry about anything. We'll figure this out.”

They would. They would figure this out. Foggy had his best friend back, and that's all he could ask for in the world. They'd figure everything else out later. Right now, Matt was real and solid in his arms. Nothing else was important.

\-----

Foggy was not a stupid man.

You could argue that he was a smart man, even. What he wasn't, though, was a psychotherapist.

But he had Google, and he was smart enough to put the dots together.

He and Matt went to the precinct together and filed a report with Brett and a detective. It was good to see Matt back in his red shades and cheap suit. He almost looked like himself.

They gave the cops the run-around. Yes, I was abducted. No, officer, I don't know what he looks like, are you kidding me? British accent and skinny was the only description given. Mulish silence the only answer to questions about why he was abducted. Outright lies about how he got away. No, officer, he moved me from location to location. I don't know where he took me. Yes, he called himself “Kilgrave” like a bad WWE stage name.

They left the cops with more questions than answers. They also left with his status as a missing person revoked.

Matt withdrew after that. He still stayed at Foggy's place, sleeping on his couch. He came in to work - usually about three days a week. Foggy didn't push. He did research and gave out legal advice, but he refused to argue in court. Foggy didn't push.

He still didn't push when he started drinking more. He never came to the office drunk or hungover, so it wasn't an issue, right? And he woke up less from nightmares the nights he had a few drinks. It wasn't healthy, but hey, maybe it was part of working through it?

Then the hookups started.

Foggy wasn't sure when or how it began. He wasn't even sure if it was guys or girls. Matt had been exclusive with women in college, but he smelled like strange cologne and aftershave sometimes now. Had stubble burn on his neck. Hickies barely covered by his suit jackets. He still didn't push. 

He read articles about hypersexuality and reliving traumatic experiences and sexual abuse, and he didn't push because how do you ask your friend if his year in hell included a heaping dose of sexual trauma? Like mind control and being forced to kill people and having your life go on without you for a year wasn't bad enough. And was it really his business how Matt coped with whatever he'd gone through? Maybe Foggy just had an overactive imagination. Maybe Matt was just being his old playboy self. Maybe nothing was happening and he was just overthinking it.

The bruises were the last straw.

“You know what? No.”

Matt paused from where he was stealing a bag of frozen peas out of the icebox. He turned to give Foggy one of his pseudo-stares. The red glasses didn't quite cover the shiner he had.

“No?” Matt asked.

Foggy forced himself to slow down and count to ten in his head. The split knuckles and bruised face seemed to taunt him. So was Matt acting like nothing was wrong.

“I've been giving you space,” Foggy said slowly. “I didn't want to push. I'm not a therapist or anything. I'm just your friend, and you don't owe me every detail of your life. That's fine. You tell me what you're comfortable with, and I'll support you. This, though?” He gestured and immediately felt foolish. “I'm pointing at your knuckles. And your face. Look, Matt, it's your business if you drink a little bit too much, or you hook up a lot. I respect you. You can make your choices. But blind fight club?”

“It's not-” Matt cut himself off with a scoffing laugh. “It's not 'blind fight club,’ okay?”

“Then what is it, Matt?”

Matt inhaled and exhaled slowly. He moved out of the kitchen to sit on the couch and gestured for Foggy to join him. Foggy remained standing.

“I was at the bar,” Matt said. “There was this guy. Pushy. Didn't take no for an answer. He tried to take this drunk girl home with him. I told him to stop, and he didn't, so I rearranged his teeth for him.”

Foggy exhaled slowly. “So you… fought someone?”

“I'm more capable than you give me credit for.”

“And how capable is that, Matt? Forgive the ableism, but you're blind. You're a law nerd who listens to true crime podcasts and helps stop little old ladies from getting evicted. Where is the badass here, Matt?”

“Foggy, please sit down.”

His tone caught Foggy's attention. He slowly sat down on the couch next to him. Matt nodded and started speaking again.

“I meant to tell you sooner, Foggy. I want you to know that. I just… never knew how to bring it up.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

Matt ran a hand through his hair and pulled his glasses off. His eyes darted around the room.

“I - You know about the accident, right?”

“What, when you were a kid?” At Matt's nod, Foggy shrugged. “I mean, yeah? It was all over the papers at the time. We even talked about you in my class at school. You were a local hero.”

He waved him off. “I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about the chemicals.”

“The ones that, uh, blinded you?”

“Yes.” Matt fidgeted more. “I wanted to tell you, Foggy, but I was scared.”

“What are you talking about?” Foggy could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

“The chemicals - they did something to me. When they got in my eyes. I - my senses are enhanced.”

Foggy blinked slowly. “What - What does that mean?”

“It means… I can hear a person's heartbeat from across the room. I can sense things - I don't know how to explain it. It's like… a radar sense. From vibrations and air displacement and stuff, I can sense my surroundings.”

“So you're… not blind?”

Matt let out a groan of frustration. “No, Foggy, I… look, you can shine a light in my eyes. They don't react. I'm blind. I can't see. I'm telling you that I can hear and taste and smell and feel things that I couldn't before the accident.”

He was telling the truth. Nobody could act that well. His eyes really did rove uselessly around the room like so many pretty marbles. Foggy rubbed his own eyes. His head was starting to ache.

“So… you can move around without seeing?”

“That's how I was able to punch that guy's teeth in. Because I could sense where to punch.”

“And is… punching people something you do often?” He really hoped not. The guilty look on Matt's face had him groaning. “You do, don't you? You're like a blind vigilante.”

“I have another confession to make,” Matt said.

“Don't you have a priest for that?”

“Ha ha,” he deadpanned. “I'm… I was… I guess the best term for it was that I was a child soldier? If I'm going to be honest about it.”

Foggy needed a drink. So badly.

“What… in the world do you mean by that? I thought your dad was a boxer.”

“He was. After he died… there was this guy. He came to the orphanage because I couldn't control my senses. I was drowning in stimulation. He taught me how to focus. And, well, he taught me how to fight. Said he was training me for the war.”

“He sounds like a real piece of work.”

Matt actually smiled at that. “He was. He really was.”

They lapsed into silence.

“I feel like I should be mad,” Foggy finally said. “You lying about the whole being blind and helpless thing.”

“Well, I am technically blind and - to be fair - I never said I was helpless.”

“True. But you always let me lead you around and worry about you all the time.”

“I'm sorry.”

The silence stretched.

“Why the sudden honesty?”

Matt leaned back into the couch. His teeth worried at his lip.

“Two things. If I told you and you left me, it would be over with. If I told you and you stayed… well, I don't have much else to lose. He-” his breath stuttered then, and Foggy instantly knew which ‘he’ he was talking about- “He already made me tell him everything. At least… at least this way it was _my_ choice.”

“He made you talk about it?” Foggy shifted in his seat. “How did he know to ask? If I can ask you that?”

“He found me when I was punching someone.” Matt's face crumpled. “Some college-age kid was getting mugged. I didn't even think… I just covered my face and went to help him. And then he… then he…”

“We don't have to talk about it anymore,” he said gently.

Matt made a noise of frustration. “I'm - I'm tired of this. Tired of - of being fucking _broken_. I'm - it's over now. I should be getting better, not - not still like this.”

“Something bad happened to you, Matt. It's okay to… not be okay.”

“Yeah.” Matt's expression closed off. He turned away. “Anyway. Now you know. I'm some kind of freak.”

“You're not a freak.” He hesitated, and then took a gamble on humor. “This mean you're gonna try out for the Avengers?”

It worked. Matt's face crinkled into a reluctant grin. 

“Didn't you tell me they wear costumes? I'm not sure I'm the costume type.”

“You could be. We could get you a mask and some spandex. Maybe some little Superman booty shorts.”

“Definitely not.”

“Your loss.” Foggy let the silence draw out for a significant minute. He took another gamble. “You're going to hate hearing this…”

“You want me to get professional help,” Matt supplied bluntly.

He blinked. “Oh. Um, yeah, something like that. I mean, maybe you could leave out the mind control part, but the other stuff…”

“I'll think about it.” His tone was dismissive. “I'm not - I don't think I want to do that.”

“Okay. No one's forcing you.” Foggy blanched at Matt's grimace. “Poor choice of words. God, sorry, Matt, I-”

“Just stop.” Matt clenched his fists and his jaw. Foggy could suddenly picture him beatings someone's teeth in. It didn't seem so outlandish in this moment. “Don't treat me like I'm glass, Foggy. Please. I just want-” his voice cracked, but he plowed on- “I just want things to be normal again.”

“Okay, Matt,” he said quietly. “Okay. I'll try.”

“Thank you.”

The silence was heavy. Matt cleared his throat.

“So, uh, has Netflix added any more movies with descriptive audio?”

Foggy took the bait gratefully. He set up the laptop while Matt pulled a bottle of scotch out of somewhere. Sitting on the couch together in their pajamas drinking cheap scotch and making fun of the audio descriptions, it almost felt like the shadow over their lives had lifted. It was safe. It was normal.

\-----

“You're home late.”

The fire escape window slid shut with a clack. She took a moment to latch it tightly and close the shutters. When she turned around, Trish was waiting with a raised eyebrow.

“I ran into some trouble.”

She deposited her slightly squashed sack of groceries on the desk and shrugged out of her jacket.

“I think the eggs are crushed,” she said lamely.

Trish shook her head, but she couldn't keep the smirk off of her face. “Don't worry about it. I ordered a pizza.”

Jessica peered at her from behind her overgrown bangs. “We have money for pizza?”

“Well, no, but when we get those pictures developed, we'll make some cash.”

“Well, about that…”

Trish groaned. “Jess, what did you do?”

She flopped onto the couch and bent forward to unzip her cheap pleather motorcycle boots. She avoided looking at her.

“Well, I was tailing the guy, right? Looked like he was going to go do something shady. We got to the docks, and that's when I heard the screaming.”

When she looked up, Trish's eyes were wide and eager. 

“The guy ran for it. Spooked him too bad. And I, being the responsible citizen of Hell's Kitchen that I am, ran towards the screaming.”

Trish came to sit beside her. “So, what happened?”

Jessica couldn't hide her scowl. “I found a group of guys loading some girls into a shipping container. Looked like human trafficking.”

“So you called the cops?”

“Hell no.” They shared a wicked grin. “I kicked their asses, told the girls where to go to call the cops and give a statement. Those perverts have to be in jail by now.”

“That's awesome. Definitely a good enough excuse to squash the groceries and lose our guy.”

“We didn't lose him. It'll just take longer to catch him, that's all.”

There was a knock at the door. She watched with feigned indifference as Trish palmed a knife behind the door and answered it. They both relaxed slightly when it was just the delivery driver. Trish slipped her knife back into her jeans. Jessica relaxed her fist.

“What I don't get,” Jessica said around a mouthful of hot cheese a few minutes later. “Is the organization.”

“I don't follow.”

She gestured expensively, toppings hanging dangerously on the edge of her slice. “These fucked up things I keep finding. They're not random criminals.”

Trish snorted. “Well, _yeah_. It's Hell's Kitchen. You can't throw a rock without hitting a gang member.”

“It's different, though,” she insisted. “I don't know what's different. It's worth looking into.”

“Isn't that the police's job?”

“So is stopping human traffickers, but where were they tonight?”

“So, what are you saying, Jess?”

She took another bite of her pizza and shrugged. “It's our neighborhood, Trish. If someone's organizing the organized crime, I think we should know about it.”

“Fair enough.” Trish toasted her with her own pizza. “Just remember we still have to pay the bills.”

“We could always ask your mother for a loan.”

“Bite me, Jones.”

\-----

The rhythm and cadence of the Mass was soothing.

He could hear it through the walls of the old church. He didn't go inside, no. He stayed on the bench by the street, but the chanted prayers and responses were one thing, at least, that hadn't changed in the past year. He largely ignored the passers-by, and they gave him the same courtesy. His lips mouthed the words unthinkingly.

“Lord, I am unworthy that you should enter under my roof,” he said quietly. “Only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”

Father Lantom found him after Mass. The priest had a sixth sense for orphans in need. Maybe he could smell the self-deprecation and pity. 

“Matthew,” he greeted him with cautious good-cheer. “I haven't seen you in a while.”

Matt's mouth quirked, but for once he resisted a perfect opening for a blind joke.

“I've been away, Father,” he said instead.

“You're always welcome back here.” He sat beside him on the bench. “Didn't come inside?”

“You don't want me inside,” he said darkly.

“So dramatic.” The priest huffed a small laugh. “Always so sure you're right. Whatever's eating at you, you won't fix it on this bench. Why don't you come in for a coffee? I have a latte machine now.”

“That sounds nice, Father, but no.” He stood up and unfolded his cane. “Maybe next time.”

“Next time, then.”

The priest didn't push. Matt loved him fiercely in that moment, and loathed him in the same breath. So careful. Even without knowing what he - everyone was just so fucking careful.

He smoothed the wrinkles from his brow and started tapping down the street with his cane, the priest's steady heartbeat a quiet accompaniment to his flight.

\-----

Karen clutched the hard drive in her fist and chewed her lip.

She had several options before her.

She could turn her boss in to the HR firm they had hired. That would get it off her plate. She'd probably also get illegally fired for not destroying the evidence.

She could go to the police with what she had, but it was her word versus her boss, and she wasn't sure the hard drive she had was enough to convict someone.

She could smash the damn thing with a hammer and pretend she never saw it.

She could get another employee to corroborate.

The hard drive dug into the skin of her palm. She stuffed it down into her bra and wiped her sweaty palm on her skirt.

She needed a lawyer.

How was she going to pay a lawyer?

She should crush the damn thing.

She opened Google. A search led to multiple bubbles of law firms in the area. She zoomed in to just Hell's Kitchen. There were less in the area. She clicked on a few. Nelson & Murdock stood out. Good Yelp reviews.

She laughed and wiped her palms on her skirt again.

What the hell. She'd go talk to a lawyer.

\-----

The best part about buying a secondhand file cabinet was having physical files to slap dramatically on the desk.

Trish raised an eyebrow at the file on the desk. When she glanced at Jessica, the woman was triumphant.

“Russians,” she said.

“Russians,” Trish echoed.

“That's the traffickers,” Jessica said. She pulled photos from the file to show her. A series of cabs and drivers soon covered the desktop.

“And you figured this out how?”

“Someone bailed them out. I was staking out the jail. I saw them leave. They got into this brand of cabs. I followed them back to the hub of their operation. The place is crawling with Russians covered in gang tattoos.”

“And you think this will lead you to some kind of crime hierarchy?”

“It's a work in progress, alright?” Jessica scoffed. “You have something better?”

“Actually…” 

“What?”

“I have a client.” She shoved the photos aside and brandished her memo pad triumphantly. “It's a lawyer and a secretary. They need a little corporate espionage.”

Jessica's grin was bright and devilish. “Ooh, your favorite.”

“Exactly. Maybe we'll even get a paycheck out of this one. You gonna stick around, or are you going to go chase more taxi cabs?”

“Eh, I'll stick around. I'm curious to see what kind of lawyers exist outside of Hogarth's legion of evil.”

Jessica stomped to the kitchen, leaving Trish to scoop the rest of the photos back into their file and shove them into the battered old cabinet. She had just enough time to follow Jessica into the kitchen to refresh the coffee pot before there was a quiet knock on the front door.

“It's open,” Jessica called out helpfully.

The women both raised their brows at the duo that entered. Whatever they'd expected of a lawyer outside of a fancy firm, the husky young man with chin-length hair and cheerful demeanor wasn't it. The woman who followed him was of the same age, tall and slender with strawberry blond hair.

“Ms. Walker?” The lawyer held out his hand to Trish. “I'm Foggy Nelson of Nelson & Murdock. This is my client, Karen Page.”

Karen also shook Trish's hand. Jessica kept her arms crossed and a brash smirk on her face.

“Good to meet you. That's my partner, Jessica Jones.”

Foggy nodded and led Karen to the client's seats at Trish's gesture.

Trish sat behind the desk. “Okay, Mr. Nelson and Ms. Page. How can we help you?”

Karen glanced at Foggy, who nodded. 

“My client came to my firm yesterday with evidence that suggests that her employer, Union Allied Construction, is involved in some form of money laundering or embezzlement.”

“And why didn't you take the evidence to the police?”

The two shared another glance.

“I don't… trust the police,” Karen said slowly. “I wanted more evidence to corroborate what I have.”

“We're afraid that without further evidence, my client's claims may get swept under the rug.”

“What's the evidence?” Jessica piped up.

Foggy's mouth firmed into a thin line. “I'm afraid we can't share that unless you've decided to take up the case.”

Trish glanced at Jessica, who shrugged. She turned back to Foggy and pulled a contract from the drawer.

“Consider us hired,” she said. “Here's our standard contract.”

Foggy read the entire thing, insisted on adding some addendums, but in the end, they signed. Karen pulled a flash drive from her purse.

“I've already told Foggy the story,” she said. “My boss sent this out on accident. I was never supposed to see it. I told him I deleted it, but I obviously didn't. It's - you'll see. It's a lot of money.”

She handed the drive to Trish, who booted it up promptly. Jessica leaned over her shoulder to look as well. She let out a low whistle.

“You weren't kidding, Page.”

“From what I can tell,” Trish said. “This definitely looks like money laundering.”

“So do you think you guys can dig up some more information from what we have?” Foggy asked.

“Oh, definitely.”

Foggy and Karen left soon after that. Jessica immediately grabbed the other laptop to flop on the couch and begin typing furiously.

“What's up, Jess?”

“Looking into Karen Page.”

Trish raised an eyebrow. “And why are you doing that?”

“Insurance. Curiosity.” Her brow was furrowed. The air was a cacophony of touchpad clacking and keystrokes.

“Is there more to it, or are you being cagey again?”

She shook the hair out of her face impatiently. “Don't worry about me. Get whatever you can from that drive.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to stake out her apartment.”

Trish's other eyebrow joined the first. “Why?”

“It's too easy. They told her to delete it and didn't follow through?” Jessica's face was grim when she looked back at Trish. “We've both lived in Hell's Kitchen long enough to know that's not how it works. Either they're really shitty criminals, or they're gonna cover their tracks soon.”

“Are we in danger?”

“Maybe. Keep your gun close. Lock the doors and windows. Hopefully my hunch is wrong and we've got nothing to worry about.”

\-----

Matt leaned against the wall of the bar and listened.

It had taken some time to track down what he needed. If he was sighted, he could just glance at a picture and know for sure that the person described in the article was the one he was looking for. Most news reports didn't include the details that made up Matt's world. He couldn't google the way someone smelled, a particular vocal tic, a heart murmur. He had to piece together context clues.

He was pretty sure that the woman he'd killed was Reva Connors, though. 

Killed. Murdered. The reality still sent a cold chill down his spine every time he thought of it, and he thought of it many times a day. That last evening was branded in his mind. Murdered.

He clenched his fist and breathed. Rhythmic breathing, meditation. It was the only thing holding him together.

Reva Connors had a husband. He owned a bar in Hell's Kitchen. There was nothing else to be found on the internet. Luke Cage was an enigma.

Matt knew this probably wasn't healthy, probing this wound while it was still so fresh. He had to know, though. Had to, as much as he could, face the man whose life he'd destroyed.

 _It wasn't your fault,_ a little voice that sounded like Foggy whispered. _He made you do it._

_Pathetic. Excuses. Weak,_ his old sensei whispered.

Matt shook them both off and calculated what he could. The bartender had to be Luke Cage. The timber of his voice and the weight of his step suggested he was a big man. Accent said not a native New Yorker. The bar smelled clean, as far as dive bars went. Liquor and oil soap, the smell of citrus - a garnish on a drink. Patrons. Too many muddled smells to bother with. He reigned back in.

He should leave. 

He should apologize. 

He should tell the truth and beg for Luke to snap him in half like a twig. Vengeance would be a fitting end for him.

He left. Fogwell's always waited for him. He punched the bags bare knuckle until his hands split open.

He clutched his bruised and bloody hands to his chest. One of his fingers was broken.

It was no more than he deserved.

Murderer.

\-----

Bodyguarding was within the realm of PI work.

Jessica didn't go for it, personally. Too messy, too much potential for unwanted attention due to her little super strength issue. No, she preferred good honest detective work. Stakeouts, research, stalking. That was her thing.

She was probably overreacting with the Karen Page thing, but recent events with human traffickers and the Russian mafia operating a cab service left her a little jumpy. Karen was too perfect a victim, anyway. Lived alone, no social media, no family except a father in Vermont, no apparent friends or connections. It would be too easy to make Karen Page disappear - and kill off any doubts about her leaking their dirty secrets.

With any luck, she was just being paranoid.

She adjusted her scarf and waited. Her outfit was Trish's idea - dark and tactical and her face mostly covered in a black mouth scarf and a smear of grease paint around her eyes. She felt ridiculous, and she refused to pick a superhero name. Still, not getting arrested for her night job would be worth it. If dressing like an asshole protected their little life, then that's what it took.

Karen was home. That much she could glean through the window cracks. The light was on, and her shadow passed by the blinds periodically.

The sky overhead was heavy and wet with the promise of a storm. She really really wanted to go back to the office and sprawl - as much as she could - on her crummy little twin bed in her and Trish's shared bedroom. She stopped herself. She had to watch. If any time was right to kidnap or murder someone, it would be when the weather was foul and no one looked beyond their own fear of getting wet. 

Bingo. 

Shady guy trying to look casual. He couldn't have stuck out more to Jessica if he tried. The storm broke just as the man let himself into the building.

That couldn't be good for Karen. Jessica hopped down from her perch and slipped a little on the landing. The first few pellets of rain very quickly turned into a deluge that soaked into her hoodie and jeans. She debated going up the normal way, but the element of surprise was too good to resist. She tensed, and leapt the few stories up to Karen's fire escape.

Not a moment too soon. She heard a struggle inside. Without further ado, she knocked the window in.

It was a whirlwind from there. 

The guy was good, she'd give him that. If she was a little slower on her feet, he'd probably get her with his little knife tricks. A quick glance as she dodged his swing verified that Karen was bloody, but alive. She shoved the guy, sending him across the room and into a lamp. 

He leapt back up immediately and swiped at her with the knife again. She caught his hand midair, just missing the blade. A quick squeeze broke a couple of bones in his hand. The man screamed. Karen screamed. The knife clattered to the floor. She kicked it away.

While she was distracted, the assassin grabbed her with his good hand and tried to throw her through the busted window. It was kind of funny, actually. She dug her heels in and let him struggle for a moment. She reached up and slapped the side of his head just as understanding dawned in his eyes. He went down like a limp flour sack.

Karen was shaking like a leaf. Jessica turned to look her over. She seemed okay. A small slash on her arm. Otherwise fine.

“You should probably call the cops,” she said to her.

“Who - who are you? What was - what was _that_?”

She looked back at the unconscious hit man.

“That was an attempt on your life. Call the cops. Give them your statement.”

“They're not going to stop.” The shock had caught up with her. She was crying now, still trembling. “They won't - Union Allied - they're not going to stop. They're going to kill me.”

She had a point.

“So we shine the spotlight on them.”

“What?”

Jessica sighed and pulled her mask down.

“It's me, Karen.” She held up a hand to cut off any questions. “We'll make sure it gets to the right people. Call the cops, and then call your lawyer.”

Karen looked shaky, still. Jessica reluctantly reached out to pat her arm. She took that as an invitation to throw herself into Jessica's arms.

“It's going to be fine,” she said lamely.

“Okay…” Karen collected herself. “Okay. I'll do it.”

“Good girl.” She pulled her mask back up.

“What do I tell them?”

“The truth.” She paused at the window and smirked, though she knew she couldn't see it. “A masked vigilante broke in and rescued you.”

She leapt from the window before she could ask any more questions.

\-----

Matt pulled his glasses off and rubbed his eyes.

“If my client is not under arrest, then we will be leaving now,” Foggy said to the police officers.

They'd been at this all night, since Foggy's phone had gone off in the middle of the night and they'd both rushed to the station. Karen had been smart to call them. The officers interviewing her were hostile and sketchy and had dragged the process out as long as possible.

“Your client hasn't answered our questions to our satisfaction,” the detective said. “We need a better description of this masked vigilante before she can go.”

Ah, the other issue.

“She's described the event six times, officer. I'm about to consider a suit for emotional damages. My client was attacked in her home mere hours ago, need I remind you.” Foggy wasn't letting up.

Masked vigilante. A copycat of his own shtick, or someone completely different? He had to give Karen credit. Her voice hardly wavered when she repeated her lie to the police. He could hear the catch in her heartbeat. She knew who the vigilante was. He wasn't going to out her, though.

“We're done here,” he said abruptly. He stood and unfolded his cane.

“Who says we're done here?”

“I do.” He inserted a shred of affability into his tone and body language. He wasn't sure if it worked. Hungover with only an hour of sleep to the last 24 wasn't a good look on anyone. “Look, officers. We've been at this all night. If you have further questions, let's do it at a later date. We all need a coffee break.”

They wanted to keep them, but they knew they had nothing. He gestured for Foggy and Karen to follow him out. They left the interview room and the station at a brisk pace.

“Physically bully your way out,” Foggy said. “That's a new one. Remind me to use that next time.”.

“They couldn't legally hold us,” he said tiredly. “You okay, Ms. Page?”

“I won't lie, I've been better,” she said. “So, my apartment…”

“Is a crime scene. Unfortunately.” Foggy blew out a gusty sigh. “Let's get coffee and… figure this out.”

Good idea. They followed Foggy to the nearest cafe and ordered the largest cups they could afford.

Matt sat at the table while Foggy and Karen brought the cups. They sat down and just rested for a moment. He listened to them start tapping their phones.

“Oh my God,” Foggy said.

“What is it?”

“The files - the ones we gave to those investigators - someone leaked them to the _New York Bulletin._ ”

Karen's heartbeat didn't waver. Curious.

“Why would they do that?” Matt asked.

“No idea. There's more.” Foggy's fingers tapped again. “That vigilante - someone caught them on camera. Blurry picture, but it matches Karen's description. They're calling her - get this - the 'Angel of Hell's Kitchen.’”

Karen snorted quietly. “Angel?”

“Because she's a woman? In a place called Hell's Kitchen? I don't know, guys, I'm just reading for Matt.”

“Karen,” Matt interrupted. They both jumped. “Did you tell the investigators to leak the flash drive?”

“I did.” Her heartbeat skipped. “I… called them after I called Foggy.”

“And you didn't tell the police?”

“Matt,” Foggy said cautiously.

“I didn't tell the police,” Karen said. “I don't trust them.”

“Lying while we represent you puts all of us at risk.”

“I know that,” she said.

“Do you?”

“Matt,” Foggy said, more urgently.

He realized then that his breath was coming closer and quicker. His still-healing hands ached and tugged sharply as he clenched them. He gritted his teeth.

“I'm fine,” he told Foggy.

“I think you're having an attack, buddy.” His voice was quiet. “Do we need to step away?”

His chest hurt. He shook his head.

“Mr. Murdock?” Karen's voice was soft.

“Okay, Ms. Karen? If you gave nowhere else to go, you can come to my place,” Foggy said. “It's probably safer not to be alone until we're sure no one will try again. Hell, I'm already hosting one person. What's another?”

“I couldn't put you out like that…”

“Please. For my peace of mind.”

Matt focused on breathing. He held onto Foggy's arm as his partner hustled them all out onto the street and on the way home. He could feel Karen's eyes on him.

“Is he okay?” she asked quietly.

“He'll be fine,” Foggy said. “And he's blind, not deaf.”

“Sorry…”

“It's fine,” Matt forced out. The walk was helping. Gave him something to focus on. He filtered the input from the city itself as they walked. “I'm just tired.”

“I know, buddy. I think we're all due for a nap.”

The nap proved to be an interesting quandary once they made it to Foggy's apartment. It wasn't exactly big, and the only furniture to sleep on was Foggy's bed and the nest Matt had made on the couch.

“You both live here?” Karen sounded incredulous.

“Temporarily,” Foggy said smoothly. “Just getting Matt back on his feet.”

“From… from what?”

Foggy hesitated.

“Bad luck,” Matt said. “You can take the couch, Ms. Page. Foggy and I will be in the bedroom.”

He dragged on Foggy's arm before he could say anything else. Foggy stood by the door while Matt yanked off his shoes, jacket, and tie.

“You sure about this, man? I can sleep on the floor.”

“That's ridiculous, Foggy. Get in the bed.”

He still hesitated. Matt rolled his eyes and got into bed. 

“Hurry up, Fogs.”

He finally started removing his own excessive clothing. He was still hesitating.

“Matt, are you…?”

He groaned and flopped onto the bed.

“Go to sleep, Foggy.”

“I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I'm not. Stop worrying.”

The bed dipped. Foggy lay down beside him. He was tense. Matt was exhausted. He rolled away from Foggy, leaving a little gap between them.

“You don't remind me of him,” he said. Sleep was already tugging at his senses.

The bed squeaked a little when Foggy shifted.

“What'd you say?”

“Cologne, hair pomade, red wine and dry cleaning,” he mumbled into Foggy's pillow. “You don't smell like him.”

Foggy hesitantly shifted closer. “I don't?”

“You smell like cheap strawberry shampoo and coffee. Fingers like ink. You're not gonna hurt me, Fogs.”

He let sleep drag down on him. He pretended he couldn't taste the salt of the silent tears pooling in Foggy's eyes. They slept.

\-----

It's not like she wasn't grateful.

She waited until both of the lawyers had been asleep for a good hour before she snuck out. She appreciated what they were trying to do for her, but the whole situation had a weird aura she couldn't shake. Friendly Foggy, who she trusted despite herself. His partner, the blind man who hardly spoke, but could talk legal jargon circles around the cops. The apartment, still and dusty like a tomb, with cardboard boxes in the corner and a half-full bottle of Jameson stuffed in the couch cushions. 

One day, maybe, she would understand whatever unspoken tragedy her lawyers were trapped in.

For now, she slipped away and let her feet carry her to Alias Investigations.

Trish didn't look surprised to see her. She sat behind her desk and merely raised an eyebrow.

“Where's Jessica?” Karen asked.

“Sleeping off her busy night. Are you okay, Karen?”

“Someone tried to kill me.”

Trish's sympathy, at least, looked genuine. “I'm sorry. I'm glad you're okay now.”

“Yeah…” She took the chair Trish indicated to her. “So you gave the flash drive to the _Bulletin._ ”

“A copy of it.”

“So what happens now?”

“Best case scenario? This is over and done. Maybe Union Allied sues you. Maybe not. No more attempts on your life.”

“That's it?”

Trish's eyes flashed. “That's the end of your part, yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“We're not pursuing your case as our client anymore,” she said. “That doesn't mean we're not pursuing it.”

“Some of the names on your drive,” Jessica said from the next room. Karen's head whipped around to see the woman - dressed now in a holey henley and faded jeans with mismatched socks - groggily poking at the coffee maker. “We think they'll lead back to other shell companies that'll lead back to some big players here in town.”

“You're going to keep investigating?”

Jessica gave her a smirk. “Yeah, Karen. Any luck, we can find a link from here to something else I've been tracking.”

“I want to help.” Both women turned to look at her appraisingly, but she didn't back down. “I've lost my job already, and you saved my life. Let me help you.”

Jessica eyed her up and down. “You're gonna look into it on your own even if we don't say yes, aren't you?”

Karen nodded.

Trish shared a glance with Jessica and sighed. “Fine. At least this way we can look out for each other.”

“Fine? That's it?”

Trish stuck out a hand. “You're hired, Karen Page. Welcome to Alias Investigations.”

“Don't expect a huge paycheck,” Jessica added.

She shook the hand. She had a feeling she was making a decision that would change her life. She couldn't afford to look back.

\-----

Matt was into his second cup of coffee before Foggy joined him in the kitchen.

“Where's Karen?”

“She left,” Matt said. 

“When?”

“Hour or so after we got here.”

“You didn't stop her?”

“No point.” He shrugged lightly. “Besides, I think I know where she went.”

“Where's that?”

“Those investigators.”

Foggy poured a mug and sat down across from him.

“Why do you say that?”

“She was lying to the cops when she said she didn't know who the Angel of Hell's Kitchen is. And She lied to us when she said she called the investigators.”

“So… you think one of the PI's is the vigilante?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Damn.” Foggy sipped his coffee. “What are you going to do?”

“Nothing about that for now.” He clenched his fist to hide its tremble. “I, uh, called my old landlady while you were asleep. She said the apartment's empty. No one wants it. She's going to let me have my old rate.”

“You're moving out?”

“I think it's time, don't you?”

“No, no, this is good. I'm happy for you.” He wasn't lying, but there was something about his tone. “It's good that you're making the step.”

Ah, there it was. Worry. He smiled to try to ease it. “Foggy, I'll be fine.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“I've known you long enough to recognize when you're fretting.”

“Okay, so I'm fretting a little.”

“I'll be fine,” he repeated. “And… I'm going to come into the office more.” Foggy's rapid heartbeat was deafening. “I think I need to… rejoin society.”

“I'm so proud of you, man.” He leaned across the table and clasped his shoulder. “This is great. I'll do everything I can to help.”

Matt bit his lip and nodded. It was time. Kilgrave was dead. It was safe now. It was time to move on.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally have SOMETHING ready to publish! December is kicking my butt hard. I apologize.
> 
> A few notes: canon-typical medical inaccuracy. Lots of vomiting - all of it stress-induced. Bastardized theology - because I may be Catholic, but I am not a theologian by any means, so I'm just doing my best. Clunky tread towards a cohesive plot. Et cetera.

She was pretty sure she was dying.

It hurt more than she'd expected. Smelled worse, too. Like dirty diapers and rotting takeaway. She shifted in her pile of garbage and groaned. 

She was full of holes. How did that happen?

People were talking. Spanish? She didn't speak Spanish. They were lifting. Her wounds screamed. She cried out.

Her eyelids fluttered closed.

\-----

The apartment building hadn't changed much. 

He slowly felt his way around the room. His old room. He could 'see’ it with his senses, but it put his mind at ease to drag his hands over the rough walls, the grubby windowpanes, the Goodwill furniture Foggy had scrounged up. He touched every piece, committed all the smells and sounds and textures into memory. It was the same, but so different.

Foggy had saved everything important. He ran his fingers over the tags on his clothes hangers. His label maker sat in the kitchen. His laptop and alarm clock. The volumes of his braille Bible. His home was ready for him.

He rested on the couch and let his senses drift. It had been a long day of moving. He listened to a stray cat rifling through the dumpster. Old Fran downstairs was boiling cabbage and frying sausage again. Somewhere, someone played soft jazz. The new neighbor downstairs was a heroin addict. He smelled it through the walls, a cloying poison and misery. A siren shrilled in the distance.

He reached under the couch and pulled up a bottle of whiskey. He unscrewed the lid and took a long pull. His eyes burned.

He'd checked the locks three times so far.

Foggy's dad had helped them screw in another deadbolt. He'd clapped Matt on the shoulder and politely ignored his flinch. He could taste the pity in the air. Victim. That's all anyone saw anymore.

He took another swig. The whiskey was fire in his mouth and throat. His nose was running. He dashed away the moisture in his eyes.

He set the bottle down and wrapped the quilt Foggy's mom had given him around his shoulders. He focused on breathing. In - hold - out. 

He would meditate until he could sleep. Mass in the morning. He could do this. He choked another sob down and breathed. He could do this.

\-----

Consciousness came back like a tickle. 

First came a gritty, groggy scratchiness around her eyes. Then the discomfort of the hard floor beneath her, the hazy sounds of paper tearing and someone rummaging in a metal box.

Then came the pain.

“Hold still. You've been stabbed.”

Jessica gritted her teeth and swallowed down her nausea. She didn't know where she was.

“Sit still, would you?”

She swallowed again. “Where-? Who-?”

“I found you in the garbage.” The speaker was a woman. Her face swam into focus. A tired-looking woman.

“You're lucky I'm a nurse,” the woman said. “You'd have bled out in that dumpster if we hadn't fished you out.”

“Why didn't you… why didn't you call the cops?” Talking was coming easier. Her mouth was still raspy and dry.

“I'm sentimental, I guess.” The woman focused on her work. Jessica wasn't entirely sure what she was doing, but it hurt. “I just think it would be a shame for you to go to jail.”

“Me, too,” Jessica wheezed. “How bad is it?”

“You're pretty roughed up. Two stab wounds and a slash.”

Jessica nodded tiredly. The hard floor was cool on the back of her head.

“So what do I call you?” The nurse poked her with a local anaesthetic and readied a needle and thread. “‘Angel of Hell's Kitchen’ is a bit of a mouthful.”

She groaned. “Stupid name wasn't my idea.”

The nurse snorted. She started sewing up the deepest stab wound. “Well, I'm Claire.”

She thought seriously about telling her the truth, but she decided against it. She'd blabbed to one person already.

“You can just call me whatever.”

“So forthcoming.” She rolled her eyes. “I'll just call you Angie for now. So, Angie, how'd you end up in a dumpster, anyway?”

That was a good question. She thought about it as the nurse tied off the first wound and moved on to the second.

“Russians,” she said eventually. “I hid in the dumpster from the Russians. Guess they knew I was onto them. They set up a trap for me. Kidnapped a little girl.”

“Jesus.”

“It was a lot of them. I got overwhelmed.”

“And stabbed. Don't forget stabbed.”

She squinted up at her through the dim light. “Why are you helping me?”

The nurse was quiet. Finally, she said, “You needed help. I have a responsibility to help when I can.”

“But why not call the cops? Not that I'm complaining…” She pulled herself up with a hiss, ignoring Claire's protests. Her multiple stab wounds screamed in agony. She forced herself to keep talking. Don't focus on the pain. “It just isn't the smart move, helping out a criminal.”

“I believe in the work you've been doing,” Claire answered in a steady voice. She calmly began picking up the refuse of her first aid attempts. “Word's getting around. People know there's someone out there trying to fight the corruption and the violence.”

“Operative word being 'trying.’”

“You shouldn't be moving around with those wounds.”

“I'll be fine.”

“‘Fine?’ You should be in intensive care.”

“I heal quickly. I'll be doing cartwheels in a week.”

Claire didn't look convinced.

“Look, I appreciate the assist, but I have to leave. I need to find that girl.”

“And then what? You're injured.”

Jessica gritted her teeth. “I'll figure that out when I get there.”

She was saved from coming up with a more solid plan by a knock on the door. They both turned to stare. They knocked again.

“NYPD.”

\-----

“Are you going to go home at some point?”

Karen looked up from her work. The sky had gone dark when she wasn't paying attention. Trish had long since given up pretending to work and was moving around the kitchen area.

“Oh, shit, what time is it?” Late. It was late. “Oh my God, I'm so sorry.”

“It's fine.” The coffee machine was gurgling now. The smell wafted through the apartment. “God knows you're not the first person to get caught up at work.”

“But this is your home. I'm intruding. God…” She started cramming her paperwork into haphazard piles on the folding card table that was her current desk. Trish's hand on her shoulder forced her to stop.

“Karen, it's fine. Come on. Come have some coffee.”

She stood up and followed her to the kitchen. There was a fray at the edge of her sweater. A string came loose and grew longer and longer under her twisting fingers.

“A little late for coffee, isn't it?”

“It's decaf.” Trish poured two mugs and handed one to her. A quick rifle through the cabinets produced some prepackaged mini muffins to join the coffee on the table. “So, what's eating you?”

She opened her mouth to deny it, but Trish's raised eyebrow cut her off. She sighed and took a sip of her black coffee. 

“Can't bullshit a private investigator, huh?”

“Sure you can. Just don't tell the civilians. It ruins the mystique.”

Karen couldn't help but laugh. They both sat. Trish passed her some muffins.

“Someone tried to kill me,” Karen said bluntly. The thread from her sweater was longer now. She forced both hands onto the table, and grabbed her coffee. The heat from the mug seeped into her palms. “It's… I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I just…”

“Can't sleep?”

“Yes,” she said vehemently. “I - my apartment just doesn't feel the same. I changed my locks. Fixed the window. Been thinking about getting a gun. I've done everything. I just can't… I don't feel safe.”

Trish hummed thoughtfully. She didn't look Karen in the eyes. Her finger traced the rim of her mug. Round and around and around.

“Someone hurt me,” she said abruptly. She stared into her mug. “It wasn't like a sudden attack like you had, and I don't think they were trying to kill me, but… I get what you're feeling. I haven't seen that person in years. I'm older now. Smarter. Stronger. They can't touch me again. I should be over it. Still...

“I still carry a knife on me all the time. Still check the locks. Still expect them to walk in and I'm just gonna be that scared little girl again. I wish I had a magic answer for you. Wish I could say it really gets better or whatever. I think maybe it does, but I'm not there yet.”

Karen's mouth was a bitter smirk. “So if it doesn't get better, how do you cope?”

Trish met her eyes then. Her expression mirrored Karen's. 

“I work a lot. I take self-defense classes. Jessica helps. Being around people, being present… it keeps you grounded. Stay busy, stay sane. That's my motto.”

“Not a bad motto.”

She took another sip of coffee. “I'm guessing 'get a therapist’ is off the table?”

Karen scoffed. “Can't afford it. No health insurance.”

“Same boat. My advice? You want to feel safe? Figure out who tried to kill you.”

She snorted. Trish's unimpressed face sobered her back up.

“Oh, you're serious.”

“Deadly.” Her finger traced the rim of her mug again. “New York's not been the same since the Incident. And there's more… people with powers.”

“Like Jessica?” Karen leaned forward eagerly. “She has powers?”

She nodded. “Super-strength. Fast healing. And if she's out there, then I'm sure there are more. The city needs looking after.” Her smile was bitter. “People like Jessica help in their way. Saving people. But us? We can protect people from the bastards trying to screw them over. That's what we can do.”

Karen swallowed and tightened her grip on her mug. “So we track down everyone involved in Union Allied?”

Trish gave her a wicked, catty grin. “For a start.”

\-----

“NYPD. Please come to the door. I just have a few questions.”

The space around the irises of Claire's dark eyes was very wide and white. 

“I'm coming,” she called. She rounded on Jessica with a hiss. “What do I do?”

“Answer it,” she whispered. “I'm not here.”

Claire visibly steeled herself and nodded. Jessica pulled her mask back up and slunk into the deeper shadows.

The man at the door looked innocuous. He smiled ingratiatingly at Claire.

“Sorry to bother you so late, ma'am. My name is Detective Foster with the 65th Precinct. We had a bit of a disturbance a few blocks from here. We're asking everyone if they've seen or heard anything unusual in the past few hours.”

Claire was surprisingly cool. “What kind of disturbance?”

“Armed robbery. Some chick with a black mask shot up a bodega. Owner put up a fight. We followed a blood trail to this area.”

“Oh,” Claire said faintly.

“Probably long gone by now,” the officer said. “Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

She hesitated just a fraction. Jessica swore internally. “No… I haven't seen anything. Sorry.”

The officer gave her a longer stare and smiled. “Of course. Thank you for your time, ma'am. You have a good night.”

“Yeah… You too.” 

She shut the door. Jessica barely waited before she was shuffling over to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“He didn't believe you.” She cracked the door and leaned out to listen. The police officer was going down the stairs. She could just hear him speaking Russian into his phone. “Yeah… that's not a cop.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Something stupid.”

She grit her teeth and climbed up on the stair rail. Claire's fingers scrabbled at her coat. She shrugged her off and did a quick a mental calculation. This was gonna hurt. She jumped.

Busting some of her stitches was almost worth the horrible yelp of surprise the man gave when she slammed into him from above.

She took a minute to let the pain wash over her. Then she grabbed the guy and threw him over her shoulder to make the climb back up the stairs.

“You're bleeding again,” Claire scolded when she made it to the top.

“Yeah, sorry about that. Got the guy, though.”

She was looking pale. “What if he was a real police officer? You just knocked out a cop!”

“Pretty sure most New York cops don't speak Russian. Badge is probably just a good fake.”

“But what if you're wrong?”

“Then I just assaulted a cop.” She shrugged as best as she could. “Roof access?”

Claire looked torn. She sighed. “This way.”

It took no time at all to string the guy up. His badge was a good fake, but still probably fake. She tossed it away. Frisked him and found a service pistol and a switchblade. She scribbled the numbers in his phone down in her notepad and carefully wiped away any prints she left. She tossed his things over the roof into the dumpster she'd collapsed in earlier.

“What are you going to do?”

She'd nearly forgotten Claire. She gave her a look.

“This guy either knows where the kid is or knows someone who knows.”

“So what? You just ask him and he'll tell you?”

“I'll ask him _nicely._ You may want to leave for this part.”

The nurse hesitated. Jessica sighed.

“Look, if you really want to stay, find a mask. Guy probably already knows you're involved, but we shouldn't make it easy for him.”

“Wait, you think they know I'm involved?”

“Probably.” She actually felt bad. She made the sorriest expression she could with her mask still on. “Do you have somewhere you could stay for a while?”

“I'm cat-sitting for a co-worker,” she said slowly. 

“Stay there, then. At least until I get this under control.”

Claire nodded. They both looked at the unconscious man.

“I hate this,” Jessica muttered. “Let's get this over with.”

\-----

She drove Karen home eventually. Jessica always made fun of her for owning a car in the city, but it was one of the few benefits she had left from her shitty childhood. It came in handy on nights like this, when she had no cash for a cab and had places to be. It beat sending Karen out unarmed in the middle of Hell's Kitchen in the dead of night.

She returned home and settled back in to wait. She thought about calling Jessica, but the anxiety stayed her hand. Who knew what Jessica was into? Would she call just as she was sneaking up on some Russian gangsters or something? She made another pot of coffee - full caf this time - and ate some more muffins.

It was nearly dawn when she finally heard rattling on the fire escape. She was on her feet and waiting when Jessica tumbled through the window.

“Jess…”

“Honey, I'm home,” she croaked.

“You look terrible.”

Jessica tugged her mask down and gave her a wild grin. She was pale, filthy, and splattered with blood. Trish saw glimpses of bandages stained rusty red under the tears in her shirt.

“You should see the other guys,” Jessica quipped.

“Are you okay?”

Dumb question. She helped her stagger to the couch and unlace her boots. Closer, she reeked. Trish wrinkled her nose.

“I'm fine,” Jessica said with an offhand wave. “Busy night is all. Made a new friend.”

“What's with the bandages?”

She plucked at the holes in her shirt. “Ah, those. Yeah, that's where the new friend comes in.”

“Jessica…”

“Fine, fine. Just bring me some water, okay?” She waited for Trish to bring some. She gulped eagerly at the bottle she brought. She wiper her mouth inelegantly with the back of her hand. “I was tailing one of the Russians. Turned out to be a trap. They kidnapped a little girl. I kinda got stabbed. It happened pretty fast.”

“ _Stabbed?_ ”

“Trish, c'mon, you know me. I'll be fine. _Anyway_ , I got stabbed a couple times, so I jumped away onto a roof. Then I ran as far as I could, but I wasn't doing so hot. So I climbed into a dumpster.”

“That explains the smell. So you thought covering yourself with garbage when you've got stab wounds was a good idea?”

“Oh, bite me. You do better.” She was smiling, though, so Trish just rolled her eyes. “I lucked out, anyway. Dumpster belonged to a beautiful nurse of flexible morals. She sewed me back up. Promised to snitch some antibiotics from the hospital for me, too.”

“Wait, you're going back there?”

Jessica shrugged. “I thought having a nurse on call would be helpful. And it worked out. Saved the kid, exposed a human trafficking operation running out of a restaurant, and didn't die. On a side note, what the hell is a troika?”

Trish groaned and sat on the couch with her. “I was worried about you. Could you try taking this seriously?”

“I am.” She gave her a serious look and sighed. “Look, Trish, I'm fine. I'll heal up in a week. You know that.”

“You're not invincible.” She crossed her arms. “I don't like playing Superman's girlfriend while you go bust up crime rings.”

“Hey, the things you're doing are important, too. I just… got myself into a mess tonight, and I got myself back out of it. I'll be more careful.”

“You say that, but I know you. Just... try not to get stabbed again.”

“Noted. Hurts like a bitch.”

She wrinkled her nose. “And no more dumpsters?”

Jessica smacked her arm lightly. “Fine, I get it. I'm going to take a shower.”

They exchanged one last smirk before Jessica staggered out, leaving a cloud of dumpster stink behind.

\-----

The electric razor whined in his ears. The scraping sound on his stubble pounded against his headache. He soldiered on.

He'd dreamed of cold hands on his thighs and whispered commands in his ears. He'd woken up in a cold sweat with his dick hard. He hadn't made it to the sink before he'd vomited up all the bile in his stomach.

He clicked the razor off, ran his hands over his face to check for missed spots. He swallowed the nausea back down. Everything was fine. His suit smelled musty like storage. His cane was a strange weight in his hands. Kilgrave didn't like the cane. He preferred to lead him himself.

He gripped the cane tighter and grabbed a pair of glasses. He dry-swallowed two aspirin and left the apartment. He checked the locks three times.

The building still felt the same. The old ladies were dressing up in their Sunday best to go gossip about each other. Someone's parakeet screeched. He stepped carefully down the stairs. There was something different - the new heroin addict. He was leaning against the wall by the mail boxes. He seemed strung out.

Matt tried to edge past him, but he sprang up at his approach.

“Whoah, hey. Hey, man. You're the new neighbor?”

“Sort of,” Matt said tightly.

“Malcolm,” the kid said. He held his hand out vaguely at Matt. He was still leaning tipsily in the wrong direction. After a moment, he laughed. “Ah, shit, man, you're blind. Sorry. I never met a blind guy before.”

“It's okay,” he said. He edged away. “It's good to meet you, Malcolm. I'm Matt. I've got somewhere to be, so…”

“Yeah, sure, man. You go do your thing. I'll just be… here.”

He gave the kid a tight smile and escaped. Poor guy. He reeked of smack and booze and a couple days of bad hygiene. Shame. Sounded like he should be in college, not strung out in the lobby of an old apartment complex.

Matt kept up a brisk walk until he made it to the church. He'd timed it so he showed up right as the opening procession was going down the aisle. He moved toward the bench and hesitated. He could hear just fine from here, but he missed it. The smell of the old stone and incense. He should wait out here.

Whatever. He slipped inside and found a deserted pew in the back. Lantom's pulse skipped when he saw him, but that was all. Mass continued as usual. Matt didn't participate. He oddly found himself relaxing.

He waited for the church to clear out afterwards. Lantom didn't disappoint. His heavy footsteps tracked to the end of the pew. He shuffled in and sat a few feet away from Matt.

“It was good to have you at Mass, Matthew.”

“Lovely service, Father,” he said dryly.

The priest waited patiently. Matt listened to the nuns shepherding the orphans back to Saint Agnes. The altar society ladies cleaned the chalices in the back. He cleared his throat.

“Father… Do you believe we ever get to say that we didn't have a choice?”

The priest thought for a moment. “That's a loaded question, Matthew. Highly contextual. In daily life, we believe we have free will to make choices. Informed choices of good and evil. Making choices, though, implies that you're free to choose. There are outside factors that can infringe on your freedom, can mitigate the wrongness of what we do. Ultimately, I think it's up to God to judge just how freely we make our choices. Such as… you know to steal is immoral, yes?”

Matt nodded dutifully.

“Stealing is immoral, yes, but what if you're stealing to provide for your family? It's still an immoral act, but how free are you to make your choice? It's not up for us to decide.” He hesitated, and said delicately, “Matthew, whatever you've done, if you confess it with true remorse, God will forgive you.”

Matt laughed harshly. It echoed in the empty church.

“I know that, Father.”

“Then… I could hear your confession. Right now, if you'd like.”

He was shaking his head before he'd thought it through. He stood up and fumbled out of the pew.

“No, Father, I… I'm not worried about God forgiving me.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” Lantom asked his retreating back.

“Forgiving myself,” Matt said quietly. Perhaps too quietly to be heard. 

He ran from the church.

\-----

There was a full-blown argument happening in Foggy's office.

Matt squinted his eyes as if that would help with his headache. It didn't. He kept walking until he got to the stairs, where he had to fumble his cane and the coffee carrier full of apology coffees and pastries to make up for showing up late and smelling like booze. The argument inside ebbed and flowed. He fumbled the door open.

“Oh, Matt's here. Here, let me get that. You're late, you know,” Foggy said.

“Sorry. Rough morning.”

“Matt, tell Ms. Page that it's in her best interest to sign a gag order and settlement.”

He sat down heavily in the crappy folding chair they had in the front office and held out a hand for his coffee. He sipped it and raised his brows.

“Right, you just got here. Ms. Page met with Union Allied this morning _without her legal representative_ , I might add, and they discussed a gag order and monetary settlement for her wrongful termination.”

“If I don't sign, they sue,” Karen added. “For sharing that file with the press.”

Matt took another sip of coffee. “So… sign it.”

Karen exploded. “You too? I can't sign that. They're trying to cover up the truth.”

“The truth you already exposed. I don't see a compelling reason not to sign it.”

“Maybe because I'm still investigating it.”

“What, with Walker and Jones?” He smirked at her surprised inhalation. “I'm aware of your new job. Honestly, you should just drop it.”

“I can't believe this.” Karen scoffed. “Both of you? I mean, I don't know why I'm even listening to you. These people tried to have me killed. If it wasn't for the Angel of Hell's Kitchen, I would be dead right now.”

“I understand you're upset -”

“Do you? If you did, you'd understand why I can't just drop this and move on. But I guess a sad drunk like you wouldn't get it.” 

Foggy inhaled sharply. Matt held up his hand to cut him off. His smile, as it stretched across his mouth, had too many teeth.

“You misunderstand, Ms. Page. I sympathize with your situation. If you were smart, you'd get out, but it's become abundantly clear that won't happen. Sign the paper. Keep investigating.”

Her heartbeat stuttered. “But… the gag order.”

“So they sue you?” He chuckled. “Drunk or sober, Ms. Page, you still have the best lawyers in the Kitchen.”

Karen faltered. Foggy stepped in, but not before he sent Matt a hard look that he could sense even blind and across the room.

“That's our advice, Ms. Page. Sign the order. Take the payoff. Try not to get sued.”

“I… okay. I'll think about it.”

“Let me show you to the door.”

Matt sipped more coffee and waited for the explosion. He wasn't disappointed.

“What the hell was that, Matt? You just told a client to sign an order and then completely ignore it?”

“She was going to keep investigating. At least this way she gets sued later rather than sooner.”

“That's a bullshit answer and you know it. And what's the deal with showing up at eleven o'clock with a hangover?”

“I'm sorry, Foggy.”

He wavered. “Don't give me your puppy face. It won't work on me.” Lie. “I'm mad at you.” Truth. “You can't keep drinking like this. I'm worried about you.”

“I know, Fogs. I know.”

“Can you please get some help? I can't do this without you. And you can't just… drink your problems away. That's a bandaid solution.”

“I know it is.” He leaned back in the chair and rested his head on the wall. “I just want it to stop hurting.”

Foggy swallowed. “I know, buddy. I do, too.”

Footsteps in the hall interrupted his thoughts.

“Someone's coming.”

Ticking watch, fastidiously clean man in a good suit. Real leather shoes. No cologne. 

They had managed to scrape themselves into something halfway presentable by the time the man knocked at their office door. Foggy walked over to open it.

“Hi,” the man said. His voice was pleasant and precise. “Do you do walk-ins?”

They got him set up in a room. Matt waited with him while Foggy brought some water.

The man was good. Slick. He evaded all of Matt's blunt questions smoothly and revealed in just a few words that he'd done his homework. Foggy seemed eager for some money. Matt wasn't sold. Big corporations didn't just pick up rinky dink law firms like theirs. There was more to this.

The man eventually turned to Matt. “If you don't mind my asking, I couldn't help but notice that, until a few months ago, you were listed as a missing person, Mr. Murdock. It's a matter of public record,” he hastened to add.

He clenched his jaw. “I'm not hearing a question.”

The man had a smile in his voice. “My employer was very particular about wanting some lawyers who were, ah, let's just say… uncorrupted. There's a lot of criminal elements in this area, as I'm sure you are aware. My employer just needs some assurance that you're not involved in anything… unsavory.”

“I'm not connected to the mob, if that's what you're asking.” He could feel his chest tightening. It was happening again. He needed to leave. “I was a victim of a crime. Other details are irrelevant.”

The man hummed thoughtfully. Matt felt hot. He stood. “Excuse me. I'll just…”

He couldn't finish. He made an undignified retreat to his own office. He tried to steady his breathing. He could faintly hear Foggy making vague excuses, the man said something else in his steady voice. He slammed his fist on his desk. He couldn't do this. Just - just mentioning it shouldn't have him acting like this.

_Weak, Matty._

Shut up, Stick.

Foggy knocked and came in. “You okay, buddy?”

“No.”

“I can see that. He's still here. He offered to throw us one of his cases before we agree to go on retainer for his… what was it again?”

“Confederated Global Investments.”

“Yeah, that. Look, it was a dick move, asking about your, uh, thing, but we need the money, Matt.”

“He wouldn't even give us his name, Foggy.”

“And that's sketchy as hell, but let's check it out. We can always say no.”

He didn't want to, but he nodded. They needed the money. He'd just have to suck it up.

\-----

“You ever think about getting some better protection?”

Jessica shrugged as much as she could with Claire working a needle through her skin.

“I'm going to heal quicker than a normal person anyway. It seems like a waste of time.”

Claire snipped the thread and gave her an unimpressed look. “So you'd rather keep me on-call to patch you back together instead of not getting hurt in the first place? I have a life to get back to, you know.”

“I know.” She squirmed guiltily and pulled her jacket back on. “I'm sorry you're having to hide out here. I just need to be sure the Russians don't come back for you.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I don't know. I throw them to the cops, and they get released in a day.”

“The cops are dirty?”

“Undoubtedly. I'm trying a new angle now.”

“An angle that leads to getting stabbed?”

“I'd prefer less stabbing, trust me.” She took a bottle of water out if the fridge. “No, the taxi business must be _for_ something. It doesn't make sense to out all this effort into getting this cab company for - what?”

“So they're smuggling something? Mugging tourists? What?”

“I'll figure it out.” She softened and touched Claire's shoulder. “I'm trying, okay? Just hold on a little longer.”

Claire held onto her frustration for just a moment before she wilted and sighed. “Just be more careful, okay?”

“I'll try.” She threw the window open and her leg over the sill.

“And Angie?”

She turned back, halfway through pulling her mask back up. Claire gave her a weak smile.

“Kick their asses, okay?”

Jessica gave her a grin and slid out of the window.

\-----

“...Office equipment. You took me to an auction for office equipment.”

“Union Allied office equipment,” Karen said. “This is where they're liquidating assets.

Trish's eyes sharpened. “You think they're selling back to their other shells?”

“I think so. It's worth checking into.”

“You're good at this.” Trish's smile was wide and proud. “Okay, let's go in. Act natural.”

They set up in the auction hall. Trish kept her eyes on the bidders and the lots on bid. She raised her paddle on occasion, but never seriously. Karen surreptitiously sketched what she could see.

Both of their heads shot up when the liquidation sale for Union Allied came up.

“Both of you stop,” a voice said quietly behind them. They froze. “Don't turn around. I know who you are.”

“Who are you?” Trish whispered. She didn't turn her head.

“Saving your asses. Don't look, but the woman in white and the man in the navy jacket. They're not bidding either. Y'all are in some shit.”

Karen's eyes darted to meet Trish's. Trish looked as shaken as she felt.

“Who are they?” Karen asked.

“Nobody good, I'm sure. Look, just bid more aggressively. Something small. Win it. There's a diner two blocks down. Gena's. Meet me there.”

The man left. Trish and Karen shared an uneasy glance. When the next bid came up, Trish raised her paddle.

They left the auction with $1,500 worth of old office equipment and more questions than answers. They didn't have to confer to come to the decision to go to the diner.

The diner was nice. They glanced around as subtly as they could. And older black man sat alone drinking coffee. Karen frowned.

“I know him…”

“Must be our guy.” Trish led them to the booth. They both slid in and sat across from him.

“Nice of you to join me,” he said.

“You're the reporter who took my statement for the Union Allied article,” Karen said.

“Guilty as charged.”

They were interrupted by the waiter coming to give them coffee. They waved off the menus.

“Ben Urich,” the reporter said. “And I already know your names.”

“What were you doing at the auction?” Trish asked.

“Same thing as you,” he said. “But I also had a feeling at least one of you would show up. You don't strike me as the kind of P.I.'s to just give up. Who hired you?”

They shared a glance.

“Originally, I hired them,” Karen said.

“And now you work for them?”

“We're just trying to get to the truth,” Trish said. Her eyes were steely. “Something big is happening in Hell's Kitchen.”

“If you were smart, you'd stay out if it.” Ben scrubbed at his salt and pepper hair. “These people you're looking into, they're bad news. One toe out of line, you'd disappear completely.”

“You know who we're investigating?”

“No, but look me up. This isn't my first rodeo.” He sighed and drained his coffee, motioning for a refill. “This isn't a game, and it's a lot more dangerous than some nanny cams and catching bored accountants with hookers. This is the kind of investigation that gets people killed.”

“So you want us to just forget it? They tried to have me killed,” Karen said.

“But you walked away alive.” He shrugged. “I were you, I'd take the win and run.”

“We can't do that. People are dying.”

“And if you're not careful, you'll join them.” Ben stared them down. Whatever he saw made him wilt. He rubbed at his eyes. “God, I'm too old for this.”

Trish arched a brow.

“Look,” he said in a tired voice. “If you're not going to give up, then you're going to have to get smart fast. Take my number. Use it. Call me before you do anything stupid.”

“You're going to help us?”

“Seems that way.” His face broke into a reluctant smile. “One caveat, though.”

“And that is…?” Trish said.

“Anything you dig up, you give exclusive rights to the _Bulletin._ ”

“That's it?”

Ben raised his own brow. “What do you mean, is that it?”

“What she means is you've got yourself a deal,” Karen said quickly.

Ben smiled wider and warmer. “Then it's a deal.”

\-----

The Healy case stank.

Matt hated every minute of it. So did Foggy, but they'd agreed to do it together, so he didn't get to complain. The man was obviously guilty, obviously criminal scum. Defending him made Matt feel dirty. Like any other scummy law firm, though, they did their best. The money would get their bills caught up. Keep them in business. Didn't mean they had to like it.

His traitorous feet took him to the church again. Old habits? He hadn't had enough today to blame the drink. No, this was all him. The siren call of comfort and absolution.

He stepped inside. The space echoed with his footsteps. He could feel the heat of votive candles clustered by the statues of saints. Incense smoke clung to the upholstery. 

He didn't expect to run into anyone in particular, but he picked up the scuffle of feet. A nun. Ah, the stern one from his childhood. Sister Maggie. She didn't speak, just walked away.

He found a pew near the front and sat. He wished he could remember what the church looked like. He'd seen it as a small child on Easter and Christmas. Memorizing it hadn't seemed important then. A lot of things hadn't seemed important back then. He tried to recall his dad's face. It was harder every year.

New footsteps. He couldn't hold back his bitter smirk. Sister Maggie had ratted him out. Here came Father Lantom with his heavy tread.

“Matthew.”

“Father.”

“Are you alright, son?”

He wasn't. He really wasn't. His chest was tight again. Hot tears welled up in his eyes. He shook his head.

“I'm tired, Father.”

The priest sighed heavily. “I know, son. I know.”

“Can we go? To the box?”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded. Tears spilled at the motion. “I'm ready.”

That was all Lantom needed to hear. He'd thrown on a stole and popped them into the confessional in a flash.

“Forgive me, Father. It's been… a long time, since I last confessed.”

“Tell me what's on your mind.”

“It's a long story.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

That wasn't a lie. Matt cleared his throat.

“I've been away, Father. Things have happened to me, and I… I'm lost.”

“Just take your time.”

“Father, do you believe in powers? Not like miracles, or God's work. Like… unnatural powers.”

“Like superheroes?” Father sounded suspicious. “Supersoldiers and aliens from the sky?”

“Like the devil.” The words echoed dully off of the wood. He shivered. “I met a man who could make anyone do anything.”

He couldn't speak. He swallowed again. Lantom's breathing was slow and steady. He focused on that.

“It wasn't all him. It feels wrong to say it's all on him. I hurt people before. I used violence, told myself I was helping. Maybe he just saw that and, and used that. Maybe… maybe it was all me.”

“What did you do, Matthew?”

He shook his head. “I didn't. I didn't want any of it. He told me I did. He made me believe I did. I didn't. _I didn't._ ”

“What are you saying? What did this man do?”

“He can control you, Father. Make you do anything.” The tears were flowing freely now. “He just has to say it. Tell me you believe me. Please. Say you believe me.”

“I do, Matthew. I do.”

He sagged with relief. Lantom was scared, but he wasn't lying. He believed him.

“If you were - coerced - you know it's not your fault, right? A mortal sin is defined not only by grave matter, but by free choice. If you were made to do something…”

“She's still dead. Reva Connors is still dead. And - and the man who did this. He's dead, too. I killed them both.”

His heart was racing. He kept his composure. A solid old priest through and through. “Did you want to kill them?”

“Not her. Not the woman.”

“But the man?”

He shook his head. His tears dropped onto his suit like raindrops.

“I can't apologize for letting him die. I'm not - I'm not sorry. He made me hurt people. He - he hurt me. Humiliated me. I can't… he needed to die. It wasn't safe.”

The priest was quiet. The booth was quiet save for their ragged breathing.

“I have to admit, this is a little above my pay grade.”

Matt laughed a bit. It was watery, but damn, wasn't that the truth.

“As I understand it, an individual of… enhanced abilities made you commit murder against your will. Do I understand that right?”

“Yes, Father.”

Lantom was quiet. When he finally spoke, he sounded very old and tired.

“I don't think you deserve a penance, but if I know you, you won't let me get off that easily. For your penance… Say a rosary. Use the time to reflect on your blessings. On the people who care about you. And, Matthew... try to forgive yourself.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You can say your act of contrition now.”

Matt went home. He said his rosary. He thought about Foggy. He thought about Father Lantom. He thought about Stick.

That night, he purchased black tac pants, shirts, and more hand wraps with one-day shipping.

Forgiveness was in short supply. His fault or not, a woman was dead. Her husband was a widower. Passing the blame didn't change that. It didn't bring her back.

If forgiveness wasn't in the cards, maybe atonement was.

\-----

Claire was gone.

Jessica took a deep breath and tried not to panic.

She tried her cell phone again. Nothing. She wasn't at the cat sitter house. She wasn't in her apartment. 

She cursed and punched a hole into the nearest wall. How? How had they gotten her? It would have to be the Russians. But how?

“Need some help?”

She whirled around, fists ready. Whatever she was expecting, a man in all black perched like some kind of creepy gargoyle on the fire escape wasn't it. His mask didn't have eye-holes. Her skin prickled.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Nobody,” the man answered. “Just a good Samaritan.”

“Who just happened to show up here? I don't think so. Who are you working for? The Russians?”

The man cocked his head. “Russians?”

“Don't give me that shit. Where's the woman who owns this apartment?”

“Not here, obviously.”

She lunged forward. The man was fast. He slipped just out of her reach.

“Look,” he said. “I'm not meaning to overstep myself here.” He dodged her next swing. “I'm out of practice in this vigilante gig. I just overheard distress and came to help.”

“Give me one good reason I should trust you.”

“I can't do that.”

“So get lost.”

“Okay. Guess you don't want to know about the kid on the stairwell who smells like blood. I think he saw something he shouldn't.”

The man's knowing smirk grated on her. She deliberately turned away from him and ignored his huff of laughter. She slammed the door open, and sure enough, there was a young man on the stairs. He looked familiar. Ah, the dumpster. He'd helped fish her out. He shrank away from her and spat out a string of Spanish. 

“Great,” she muttered. “Um, kid. English?”

The kid shook his head and kept stammering.

“He's scared.”

Black mask guy again. He looked less intimidating in the light. Shorter than she'd expected. Nice pecs. She scowled and did not examine his stubbly mouth too closely.

The man crouched next to the boy and spoke softly to him in Spanish. They exchanged some more words. The boy seemed to relax. Jessica couldn't understand much, but she did hear the name “Claire.”

“What did he say?”

The man cocked his head oddly again. “The woman they took. Claire. He said two men came. They were looking for her. They drove a taxi.”

“Is it Veles Taxi?”

He nodded.

“I knew it.” She started storming down the stairs.

“Want some help?”

She paused. The man stood at the top of the stairs. His eyeless mask followed her.

“You any good in a fight?”

The man grinned. “A little.”

“Keep up, then. The woman they took - she's innocent. All she did was help me.” Her words came out more bitter than she intended. 

“Got it.”

He followed her lead as she sprinted out of the building and down the street. Even with the extra spring to her step from her abnormally strong legs, he kept up, running silently alongside her. 

“You got a name?” She breathed out as they ran.

“Not a fancy one like yours.”

“What do I call you, then?”

“Surprise me.”

What an asshole. 

She avoided more conversation until they got to their destination. The man held up a hand to halt.

“What are you doing?”

“Listening.”

“What, you've got super-hearing?” He didn't reply. She rolled her eyes. “Of course you do.”

“Hush.” He cocked his head again. His mouth thinned. “They're torturing her. Asking about you.”

Her fists clenched so tight that her gloves creaked.

“I think it's gone on enough. You good fighting in the dark?”

“Don't prefer it.”

“Pity. I was going to flip the breaker.” He nodded towards the building. “Ladies first.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he was already darting off into the shadows. She shook her head. Whatever. He could ninja off, but her style was a little more blunt than that. She kicked the door in.

“Hey, assholes.”

Every head turned toward her. They had Claire tied up. She was crying. Jessica saw red.

“Come pick on someone your own size.”

The room erupted. 

The next few minutes were a blur. Gunshots. Dodging. Throwing mobsters across the room. In a tiny lull, she saw the masked man getting Claire out of her restraints. A mobster came at her with a chain after that. She lost track.

More punching. More kicking. Screams of pain. She kicked a guy in the ribs with a sick crunch and whirled on the last spot of movement.

“Whoa, friendly, friendly!”

Mask man. She lowered her fist. The floor was littered with groaning bodies. Claire was limping out from behind a cab. Jessica rushed over.

“Claire. Are you okay?”

She was definitely not okay. Shaking, sobbing. Jessica reached out and pulled her in for a hug. What else could she do?

“I've got you, Claire. I've got you.”

The masked man was already gone. She grit her teeth and hefted Claire up into a bridal carry. They stepped outside.

Mask man was puking into a nearby alley.

“What's your problem?”

The man shook his head and waved her off.

“Seriously. You get hit in the head?”

“I'm fine.” He gagged and spat again. “You have somewhere to take her? Somewhere safe?” 

“Yeah.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“You gonna be okay, Zorro?”

“I'll be fine. Take care of her.”

She didn't believe him, but he was already gone, parkouring off into the night. If it wasn't for the putrid pile of vomit he'd left behind, she would have thought she'd imagined him.

“Okay, Claire. Let's get you home.”

\-----

Secret identities were ridiculously hard to keep. This was made extremely evident by the fact that her apartment was turning into a halfway house for battered women.

Jessica perched on the kitchen counter and watched while Trish did her best to clean up and patch Claire's wounds. Night had bled into morning. Karen would be in soon.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital,” Trish said. She taped down one last piece of gauze. “I'm not exactly a doctor.”

“Well, I'm a nurse,” Claire said. She looked exhausted. “I think it'll be okay. Worst case scenario, I'll go to a different hospital and get some stitches.”

Guilt gnawed at Jessica's gut. She chewed on her lip and crossed her arms even tighter across her body.

“What are you brooding about over there?” Claire called.

“You weren't supposed to get hurt,” Jessica said. “You didn't - You got hurt because you helped me.”

Trish glanced at her, but it was Claire who answered, “Hey, you didn't force me to pull you out if that dumpster.”

“Well, you weren't supposed to get kidnapped by mobsters.” She finally sighed out some of her tension. “You almost died.”

“But I didn't. Hey,” Claire said softly. “You saved me, okay? You and that guy. You saved me.”

“Guy?” Trish asked.

“Some dude in a Zorro outfit - I'll tell you later,” she said dismissively. “You wouldn't have needed saving if I hadn't gotten you involved.”

“You're really gonna beat this dead horse, aren't you, Angie?”

The guilt squirmed harder. “It's Jessica.”

Claire raised her unbridled eyebrow.

“My real name is Jessica. This is Trish.”

Trish waved awkwardly.

“She a vigilante, too?”

“Worse,” Trish said cheerfully. “We're private investigators.”

“Oh.” Claire peered harder at Jessica. “I forgive you, you know.”

She flinched.

“It's not your fault they got me, but you _did_ save me. Just tell me you have a plan for dealing with this.”

“Not a concrete one yet,” Jessica said reluctantly.

“Why am I not surprised?” 

“I'm going to fix this.”

“You better. Things are getting more dangerous out there.”

“Maybe I'm just making it worse.”

“You believe that?” Claire tried to cross her arms and winced when it pulled on her wounds. She settled for glaring. “What about the girls you've saved from human trafficking? That little girl they kidnapped? Any of the people you've helped? Think they want you to quit?”

She didn't dignify that with an answer.

“Fix this,” Claire pleaded. “Just - stop wasting energy feeling guilty and do what you said you would. Get these people off of the streets.”

“I will,” she promised.

Silence. Trish shut the first aid box lid.

“You're welcome to stay here until we figure out if they're coming back,” Trish said.

Claire smiled tiredly. “In your weird office apartment? No thanks. I'm gonna stay at my mom's until this blows over.”

“Your mom nearby?”

“Uptown, but I'm not telling you where. No offense.”

“None taken.”

Jessica chewed her lip again. “Can I still call you?”

To her relief, Claire didn't even hesitate. “Of course. You still have my number. If you're in trouble, you can call.” She smiled. “Or, miraculously, if you just need a friend.”

Jessica didn't want to admit how much that thought warmed her heart. She coughed to cover her answering smile.

\-----

He was going crazy. 

He checked the locks again. One, two, three. Saturday. No office, no Mass, just him, alone, trying to stay sane.

He kept hearing noises. Or did he? He couldn't be sure. The only constant was his own paranoia. He checked the locks once more. One, two, three.

Kilgrave was dead.

He was dead and gone and he wasn't coming back.

He shook his head and threw on some nicer clothes. It was early. He felt his watch. Too early. He couldn't afford to care. He'd find a bar, crawl into a bottle until he found someone to fuck him until he couldn't think straight anymore.

He left the building. The phantom clicking stayed behind.

\------

Matt made it to a different alley before he lost control of his stomach. He braced his fist against the side of a building and retched until there was nothing left of his meager breakfast to vomit up. He spat one last time, miserable. His arms quivered.

Corruption in the courtroom was one thing. Finding out about rigged juries, roughing up some thugs to stop them blackmailing jurors, that was stuff he handled.

A man impaling himself on an iron fence?

His stomach turned again and he cursed.

This was exactly the kind of freaky shit he wanted to avoid. He'd only come to ask Healy out of morbid curiosity. There was obviously a larger force at play in the trial between their shady employer, Healy's oddly-opportune self-defense against a man with implied criminal dealings, and the succession of rigged jurors. The whole thing added up to an ugly picture, so sure, he wanted to know who pulled the strings. 

He obviously hadn't been prepared for the answer.

He pushed away from the wall and tried to gauge the time. His burner phone's accessibility features were practically nonexistent. He'd left his watch at home.

It was probably late enough to go to Alias. The sun would be setting soon. He found a path and made his way to the rooftops to search for the building.

Google Maps had given him the address. He did his best to apply that to rooftop and alleyway traveling. It was touch and go. Once he got to the general area, he refocused on his sense of smell, searching for the combination of leather, grease paint, coffee, and cheap shampoo that hovered around the other vigilante. He found it, along with the smell of Karen Page, another woman with a light spritz of perfume, and the lingering smell of both the nurse he'd helped rescue and blood.

He scaled the building and focused his senses. Three women inside, including Karen. It was a gamble, but he didn't want to sit on this any longer.

He perched on the fire escape and tapped the window.

One woman let out an undignified yelp. Tension racketed up in the room. The one that smelled like the Angel marched to the window.

“Jesus,” she said as she threw it open. “Why do I even try to have a secret identity? What do you want, Zorro?”

“If it makes you feel better, I don't actually know if you're Jessica Jones or Patricia Walker,” he offered.

“That makes me feel much better.” Her voice oozed sarcasm.

“I have something for you,” he said. “A name.”

Suspicion colored her body language and voice. “What name?”

“Earlier this evening, I questioned a man named John Healy about his employer. Healy had just won a court case after he killed a man named Prohaska. Someone was rigging the jury. When I confronted him, he gave me the name of his employer and then killed himself.”

You could have heard a pin drop. 

“He killed himself?” The other woman, not-Karen and not-Angel, asked.

“Apparently killing himself was better than whatever his employer would do to him.”

“Say we believe you,” Angel said. “Which is a stretch, considering I don't know you or trust you. Why tell us?”

“Because I don't want to deal with this,” he said honestly. “I've got enough of my own shit to deal with. You're looking for the corruption in this city? I think I have the name of the kingpin.”

“So what is it?” That was Karen.

His lips thinned with distaste. “Wilson Fisk.”

He didn't give them time to react. He was already swinging back down the fire escape. Angel made a futile attempt to catch up.

“Wait - you're not going to help with this?”

He didn't bother to answer. He escaped into the night.

\-----

Foggy was feeling better about things.

The Healy case was done. The fact that their client was murdered right after they closed the case was incredibly sketchy, but he was done with sketchy. Incredibly done. No, he was not thinking about any more sketchy things.

Their current client was an incredibly sweet old lady named Mrs. Cardenas. Foggy was in love. She was the perfect client - an innocent victim of the system, a lovely woman, a scrappy fighter. She'd offered to make him caldo. He didn't care that he didn't understand a word she said. She was wonderful.

Matt seemed less enthused. Foggy was worried about him, honestly. He'd been off ever since he'd escaped from Kilgrave, but now he was listless and twitchy. He seemed to jump at sudden noises, his artful stubble looked more like a short beard, and he took longer and longer to respond to any attempts to reach him.

Foggy decided to bridge the gap in the only way he knew how: cornering him at home.

He took the stairs at a cheery gait, ignoring the strung out guy leaned against the mailboxes to knock at Matt's door.

The door slid open to Matt's confused face.

“Foggy?”

“It is I,” he said. “I come bearing gifts.”

“Gifts of… groceries?”

“This is your mental health check-in. I'm worried about you, buddy.”

“I'm fine,” he said weakly, but he still stepped aside so Foggy could bring his sacks inside.

It was about as bad as he feared. Matt from college kept everything immaculate and organized. The apartment wasn't messy, per se, but the fine layers of dust on the furniture and clutter told their own story.

“I'm not judging you, man,” Foggy said. “I'm giving you a totally supportive and loving smile, by the way. The most earnest expression you never saw. But you're my partner, and we can't be partners if one of us is in a downward spiral.”

“I'm not in a downward spiral.”

Foggy raised an eyebrow and popped the fridge open. There was… a slice of cheese going moldy and half a jar of pickles. The dishes were piled in the sink.

“Say whatever you want, man, but can you just let me help you?” He shut the fridge and stepped closer to his friend. “Like, even if you're going to tell me everything's fine and okay, can you just let me clean your apartment up and help you sort your laundry? It looks like you mixed your darks and lights in that… lovely mound on the floor there.”

Matt looked like he wanted to argue, but he closed his mouth. He nodded. “Okay. We can clean up. Just… no lecturing?”

“I'll restrain myself.”

It was oddly pleasant, spending the evening hours after work slowly putting Matt's apartment back together. Matt even washed the dishes - mostly because his standards were painfully exact. Foggy politely ignored the empty bottles in the garbage bin, and the stashes around the living room and bedroom. That was a fight for another day. He got the rest of the place in order, and they went to the laundromat together.

“Wasn't so bad, was it?” He asked.

Matt had been quiet the whole time. He shook his head. “No, not bad. Thank you, Foggy.”

“Anytime, buddy.”

\-----

The call came through the office line. Trish was out on a job. Jessica was… wherever Jessica went during the day. Karen picked up the phone.

“Alias Investigations,” she said.

The line was quiet.

“Hello?”

“Message for the Angel,” said a growly voice.

Karen's heart stuttered.

“Who is this?”

“The man in the mask,” the voice said. “Tell her. Tell the Angel not to trust the police. They work for Fisk. They just killed a Russian at the precinct for saying the name I gave you.”

“Wilso-”

“Don't say it!” The gravelly yell echoed in her ear. He continued in a softer voice, “It's not safe. If you must go to the police, ask for Sergeant Brett Mahoney.”

“Why him?”

“He's clean. Trust me.”

“How do you know that? Hello?”

The line was already dead.

\-----

Matt leaned back in his office chair and groaned. 

Russian mafia. Wilson Fisk. Murder and mayhem and corruption in a city already filled to the brim with it. 

He wanted nothing to do with it.

He desperately wished he had some whiskey stashed in his desk, but he had some measure of standards left. He owed Foggy enough to not drink on the job. Still, the foul liquid would deaden some of his screaming paranoia and quiet the phantom whispers that dogged his waking hours. Some peace is all he needed. Just some blessed quiet.

Foggy was still puttering in his office. He was positively gleeful about suing Mrs. Cardenas's landlord. His enthusiasm was catching. Matt started to relax.

The door to the office swung open.

In a flash, Matt was on his feet, heart in his throat. His senses bombarded him with rapidly-catalogued input. A man, muscular, slight wheeze of a smoker's lung. He had a knife - possibly a switchblade - and a pistol in his pocket. Biker boots and denim. Stale cigarettes, beef tacos, a hint of peppermint not masking the odor of his lunch. Too much cilantro.

He gripped his cane like a weapon. Play dumb first. “Is someone there?”

The man stepped through the main room towards Matt's office. Foggy was at the doorway of his own office now.

“Can we help you?” he asked.

“I'm looking for Matt Murdock,” the man said.

Matt stepped out of his office. “I'm here.”

The man's tense posture relaxed. “Mr. Murdock. You're the man I need to see.”

Matt couldn't mask his frown. “How can I help?”

“My name is Willie Lincoln,” he said. “My daughter. He has my daughter.”

“Who?” Foggy asked.

“Kilgrave,” Lincoln said.

Matt's blood ran to ice.

“Kilgrave has my daughter.”


End file.
